Chapter Nine
Fernbridge, December 1814
December brought snowand bitter cold. The pond was frozen, the insects hidden from sight, buried under soil and leaves and logs, some paused in their life cycle as eggs or larvae. Verity found the winter difficult. The days were short and dull. The family stayed near the hearth. They rarely ventured from the sitting room, let alone the house, except to go to church or take baskets of bread and jars of stewing apples to the poor.
There was nothing new to paint. Sewing and music and reading were all that stood between Verity and absoluteennui. And, of course, the occasional letter.
It was a particularly dreary, drizzly day that brought a lovely, thick stack of post from the village. Mr. Lockhart—as much affected by the lack of activity and purpose as the ladies of the house—had donned his great coat, scarf, and gloves and made the pilgrimage to the postmaster’s office. A worthwhile endeavor, as it turned out.
While he braved the weather, his wife was inspired to catch up on her correspondence. After all, there would be friends who likewise sought relief from the mundane drudgery of winter days with a cheery bit of news from Fernbridge. It also meant Verity had work to do.
“Oh, how these quills vex me!” came the usual complaint almost immediately after Mrs. Lockhart had seated herself by the writing desk. “Not as nimble as a needle, nor as stout as a ladle. I cannot comprehend why I should struggle so. We are living in the nineteenth century. Why is there no clever man who can improve upon its design?” she wailed.
“Perhaps it will be a clever woman,” Verity muttered under her breath. She instantly regretted it, for her mother turned at the sound and thrust the offending article at her.
“Here,” she said, evidently pleased to have found a solution to her frustration. “You will write and I will dictate.”
Verity took the quill without a word. It was pointless to argue. Besides, there was nothing else to do. Writing was as good an occupation for her listless spirit as any.
“Address it to Mrs. Fotheringhay. You know the details.”
In a careful hand, Verity complied. When she was done, she sat back, waiting in readiness for the sentences to follow.
“I hope this letter finds you well.” Mrs. Lockhart spoke. Verity dipped the nib in ink and scratched the words upon the paper. “I imagine you suffer in the cold as much as we do. The north has such an unforgiving clime and Fernbridge feels it. However, being in Scotland, you bear the worst of it.”Scratch, scratch. “Mind you, last winter, the Thames froze quite solid and I recall they led an elephant upon its surface at the Frost Fair. If London and the south cannot escape such severe temperatures, I do not see how we may be spared.”
She paused a while for Verity to catch up, then resumed her dictation.
“We have recently had the pleasure of reacquaintance with Mr. William Cole, whose father, you may remember, heads the bank in our local borough. He returned from his summer in Steeples two months ago and has since visited us a number of times, which we thought most civilized of him.”
Verity’s neck grew warm as she penned her mother’s thoughts. She hoped this short reference would be news enough of Mr. Cole’s family. Instead, her mother paused and contemplated the subject for what felt like a small eternity.
“Do you know, Verity,” her mother said in that thoughtful voice that screamedbrilliant idea, “I think you could add something here of your own. You express yourself far better than I do.”
It was such a barefaced lie that Verity was amazed her mother did not blush with the shame of it.
“I have nothing to say,” she insisted.
But Mrs. Lockhart waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “I’m sure you will think of something. Only, do hurry. I have more to tell Mrs. Fotheringhay and do not wish to forget my thoughts.”
Verity tapped a knuckle against her forehead, trying to coax the words from her mind. This was silly. It wasn’t as if Mrs. Fotheringhay even knew Mr. Cole. She would not care if little was said of him.
Perhaps one sentence would be sufficient. “We see less of him now that the weather has turned.” There. The end. No more need to discuss Mr. William Cole.
“Read what you have written,” her mother commanded. Verity obeyed. Mrs. Lockhart rolled her eyes and grabbed the quill. “Move aside, Verity,” she instructed, seating herself so quickly, Verity scarcely had time to vacate the chair.
Mrs. Lockhart gripped the writing tool awkwardly, her brow creasing with concentration. She wrote carefully, scowling repeatedly at the pen as though its existence offended her. Finally, she sat back, satisfied.
“There! That’s more like it.” She rose once more and indicated the empty seat. “Now you continue.”
“But, Mama,” Verity protested, “won’t Mrs. Fotheringhay wonder at the two sets of handwriting? It does look rather odd.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” came the reply. “The old dear is as blind as a bat. She will have one of her children read it to her, and you know how they struggle with their letters. They will hardly notice which hand the words are in.”
Verity perused her mother’s written additions. She groaned inwardly. “Why do you mention that he is handsome? Or that he brought me a gift? Mrs. Fotheringhay will draw all the wrong conclusions!”
“Perhaps they are not wrong,” her mother said, cocking her head in an attitude of what could only be feigned innocence. “You would not deny that Mr. Cole is pleasing to the eye.”
“No, but…”
